


the time peter parker was (unofficially) adopted by all the avengers

by psychoticfire



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Based on a Tumblr Post, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Good Friend Ned Leeds, IronDad and SpiderSon, Light Angst, M/M, Michelle Jones Is a Good Bro, Not Beta Read, Other, Other: See Story Notes, Post-FFH but pre-FFH end credits (u know the one), Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Lives, is Nat alive? stick around to find out, not starker fuck starker, very self indulgent but i'm pretty sure some need this too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-07-19 22:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19981828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychoticfire/pseuds/psychoticfire
Summary: Peter's just a kid from Queens.He's just a student at Midtown Tech.He's just a nerd trying to get his crush to notice him.He's just a boy finally going on dates.He's just a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. And that's it. He swears.But he's also capable of becoming the unofficial child of the Avengers. And that's cool, in his opinion—super,supercool—but it can also become a bit trying. Especially when he has to explain why Thor, the god of Thunder, is attending his parent-teacher conferences instead of the busy May Parker, or when Steve Rogers and James ("Bucky", now, to Peter) Barnes show up to chaperone a school trip.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So! A few things to clear up first:
> 
> This takes place post-FFH and Endgame, BUT in this fic, Steve doesn't abandon his timeline and friends for Peggy, and Tony survived the snap. 
> 
> At the moment, Mysterio & JJJ still haven't released their announcement, so Peter's identity is still under wraps! But it does happen, though... Eventually.

“Alright, kid,” Tony says, lifting his prosthetic hand—the glaring war wound from wielding the gauntlet and defeating Thanos' army—to gesture vaguely at the hallways and doors around them. “Welcome to your temporary home. You're gonna be staying here for a while, so get familiar, alright?”

Tony turns to look at the teenager standing next to him, still suited up in his iconic (Stark-made) Spiderman getup. Peter Parker's uncharacteristically silent, and Tony shifts uncertainly. “Kid, you alright?”

Peter blinks at his surroundings, pulling off his mask and staring at Tony. “Mr. Stark, I'm—I’m gonna be staying at the Avengers headquarters?”

So he’s starstruck. Tony grins to himself. “Yeah, Pete. I mean, c'mon. You managed to defeat that shithead in Europe, dealt with Fury all by yourself, and got, what, hit by a train?”

“Yeah.” Peter furrows his brows. “I hate trains.”

Tony laughs. “And you ended up in the Netherlands. Man, you've got to tell me this story.”

“I will.” Peter scratches at his arm. “But—the Avengers headquarters? Really?” His voice comes out as a small squeak—evidently still nervous at the concept of staying at a military base built for heroes. No matter how many times the headlines praise Spiderman, or hell, how many times _Tony_ lets slip praise about Peter, he never seems to deem himself worthy of being a 'hero’.

“Yeah, kid. You need the rest. I took the liberty of telling Happy to ask May to call ahead and give you a few days off from school.”

“You know about…” Peter's voice drops to a whisper. “... Them?”

“Sadly, yes.”

The two of them round a corner in the corridor, and they stop short, Tony stumbling—not really knowing what's going on—as Peter immediately leaps to the ceiling and shoves his mask back on.

“Pete, what—” Tony glances from Peter, clinging to the ceiling, to the view in front of them. “Oh.”

Steve Rogers stares back, along with Rhodey, Sam, Clint, and Barnes (Tony still hasn't gotten used to the idea of calling the Winter Soldier _Bucky)_ , the five of them sitting around a table with a few beers and other drinks strewn on the surface.

Tony closes his mouth. Then opens it again. “Friday,” he starts. “That was today?”

“Actually, Tony, today is Sunday,” his A.I. responds, her artificial voice blasting from speakers installed in almost all the rooms in the base.

The five sitting across from them are still staring at them—or, namely, the masked teenager currently clinging to the ceiling in terror of his secret identity being exposed. Tony sighs.

“Pete, it's fine. You know these guys. You've met.” On opposite sides of a battlefield, yes, but those are technicalities.

Peter lowers himself down with one hand and drops to the floor. “Hi, everyone,” he says, still not taking the mask off. He sounds nervous and on edge, but at least he doesn't seem about to leap through the nearest window at a moment's notice.

“Queens,” Steve says in greeting. Peter's eyes widen—probably not used to Captain America in civilian wear greeting him like an acquaintance.

“Uh… Mr. Cap. Cap. Mr. Brooklyn, sir,” Peter stammers. “Um. Mr. Rogers.”

“Steve is fine,” Steve says.

“It really isn't,” Peter squeaks out. He glances at the other Avengers. “Oh, it's metal arm guy!”

Barnes’ eyebrows shoot up. “Metal arm guy,” he repeats.

“Yeah, um.” Peter chuckles nervously. “Sorry for… sticking you to the ground and all that. And I never really got your name?”

“It was all over the news,” Barnes says.

Peter probably blushes under the mask. “Um, I don't… watch the news?”

“Really?” Steve turns to Tony. “How old is this kid?”

Tony shrugs. “Depends on whether or not he wants to tell you that. Peter, you wanna stay, or you wanna go check out your room?”

Peter considers it, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I'll—I’ll stay,” he decides. And with a hand, he tentatively pulls off his mask, holding it tightly in his grip while his free hand waves uncertainly.

There's a moment of silence, before—

“Holy shit,” Sam blurts. “You let us beat up a fourteen-year-old in Germany?”

“What the hell,” Barnes says, staring at Peter. Then he stares at his metal arm. Then back at Peter. “Oh, god, I punched you.”

“You _tried_ to,” Peter corrects automatically, before freezing. “Oh—Uh, shit, was that—Sorry.”

But Barnes laughs— _laughs,_ and Tony stares, because he's never seen the guy even smile before. “No, no, don't worry about it. You're right.”

“I'm Peter,” Peter introduces himself. “Parker. Peter Parker. And I'm technically twenty-two, but I… Um, with Thanos. So I'm seventeen.”

Steve glances at Tony, and their eyes lock. Tony knows what the other is thinking of— _“I lost the kid,” Tony manages, his voice wrecked and his grip weak as he tries to stay upright, having just been starved and dehydrated on an alien spacecraft for days. “I_ lost _him.”—_ and he nods, just slightly.

Steve's face softens, and he looks to Peter. “Tony's spoken highly of you,” he says, and Peter's eyes widen.

“Tony—I mean, Mr. Stark has—?” Peter bites his lip, probably trying his best not to make a fool out of himself in front of the other Avengers. “S’cool. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Cool.”

Clint snickers. “I like him. Tony, is he staying for reunion night or what?”

Clint's referring to their biweekly reunion nights, where the Avengers try their best to drop in back at (their newly rebuilt after Thanos’ final stand) base and just… relax for a night. It's open to all the Avengers, intergalactic or human, if they can manage to attend.

“Thor might be dropping in later,” Steve says. “If he doesn't, I'll make him stop by.”

“The last time you summoned Mjolnir,” Barnes reminds him, “you had to hold your arm out for two days straight.”

“Worth it.”

Peter smiles, and he turns to Tony. “Can I stay?”

Every parental instinct is telling Tony to put the kid to bed, but Peter deserves a break, too. Deserves to meet people like him, become friends with them. _Especially_ after what happened with the Mysterio guy—with _Beck_ , the mild-mannered tech-dev on a team working on B.A.R.F., who'd been smart but not exactly an eye-catching genius.

Tony wondered what the hell he could have done to have done such a number on Peter, the brightest, smartest, kindest kid he knows.

“Sure, kid,” he hears himself say. “You can stay. But no one, and I mean no one, give him alcohol.”

Steve, out of all people, snorts.

\---

Peter has never interacted outside of a fight/life-or-death situation with any Avenger outside of Tony, and he's, unexpectedly, having the greatest time of his life.

Steve's hauled over two additional armchairs, and Peter perches in one now, listening to the other Avengers talk about… Well, almost every topic, really, with Peter pitching in an opinion every once in a while and the others seeming thrilled to let him talk.

God, if only Flash could see him now.

“So, like, I knew that Mr. Stark wasn't dead, right, but Mr. Beck—uh, Mysterio didn't, so he threw me into this weird illusion world, but it was just made with holograms and projections but it felt _so real_ ,” Peter says, so immersed in his tale that he barely registers the other Avengers’ eyes on him. “And so he showed me a tombstone of Mr. Stark and told me that if I was good enough then maybe he'd still be alive and then there was this zombie like Iron Man that climbed out of the grave and started chasing me—”

“Wait,” Tony interrupts. Peter shuts his mouth and glances over at him. “That son of a bitch did— _said—_ **_what_ ** _?”_

Peter's mouth opens and closes. “Yeah,” he manages, finally. “But it wasn't real, though.”

“It kind of _is.”_

“Tony's right. That's messed up, man,” Sam says.

Peter falters. “Yeah, it kinda was,” he admits quietly.

Before the mood sombers any further, a loud peal of thunder cracks through the air, the sound echoing in from the outside and undoubtedly resounding through Manhattan. A subtle tang of electricity coats Peter's tongue, and he blinks twice.

Sam snorts. “Glad to see the landing pad's working out,” he says.

“What's—” Peter's cut off by Steve raising a hand and grinning as a blur of silver and white flies through the air from where the doorway was, slamming home into Steve's grip and filling the room with the buzz of latent godly power. _“Oh.”_

“Avengers!” a loud voice booms, and the (co-?)owner of Mjolnir bursts through the doorway after his weapon. “Greetings!”

“Thor!” Clint says. “Finally.”

Laughing, Steve tosses the hammer lazily back to Thor, who catches it casually. Peter watches in awe at the show of _that much_ barely bridled power being tossed around like an inflatable ball at a teenagers’ beach party. “Thought you'd never arrive,” Steve jokes.

“I was a little caught up with the rest of my team,” Thor explains.

“Excuse me? _Your_ team?” a new voice pipes up. A man dressed in a red leather jacket pokes his head into the room, and the rest of him follows as he steps closer to the group. “I thought we established this, Thor. _I'm_ the leader.”

“Oh, you brought him,” Rhodey says, none too enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes, Quill, I remember that,” Thor says dismissively. “Your team, yes, indeed.”

Quill shakes his head, crossing his arms. Then he seems to notice Peter. “Hey, he's new.”

“Actually, we might have met,” Peter pipes up. “I'm Spiderman. Uh, we _might_ have crossed during the battle?”

“Oh!” Quill doesn't look like he recalls Peter, but he nods nonetheless. “Awesome. I'm Peter Quill.”

“Peter Parker,” Peter says. Then something hits him. “Wait, did you say Peter Quill?”

“Yeah, Peter 2.0.. You also might know me as…” Quill gestures to himself flamboyantly. “Star Lord.”

“Doesn't ring a bell,” Peter says, mystified, and Thor laughs. “It's just—I saw a video on you once. It was from BuzzFeed Unsolved. Is it true that you were abducted by aliens?”

Quill blinks. “Technicalities aside? Yeah. Why?”

Peter pumps his fist. “Ned owes me ten bucks!” he crows, then falters—remembering the fact that he is, in fact, surrounded by worldwide vigilantes and intergalactic heroes, all of whom are _way_ cooler than he is and ever will be, and blushes, embarrassed. “Um. Ignore me.”

“Do not apologize for being yourself,” Thor says, “young… Parker. I am Thor Odinson.”

“I know,” Peter says before he can stop himself. “Uh, we study you in physics class. And… thank you?”

“He studies me in physics class!” Thor announces, gleeful, and that was that.

\---

The night drags on, but to Peter, it feels like time practically _flies_ past them at light speed. He's lost track of how many hours he's spent immersed in the group when he suddenly yawns—loudly—in the middle of Thor recounting a run-in with Skrulls and only noticing because Quill hadn't said a word about wanting to find Gamora in twelve hours.

“Sorry!” Peter rubs a hand over his face, embarrassed when all eyes land on him. “I'm not—It’s just been a long couple of days, I'm not saying that what you're saying is boring—”

“Pete, do you want to retire for the night?” Tony asks.

Peter's eyes widen, mortified. “No! No, of course not!”

“You sure? We'll still be here, you know,” Rhodey says. “Don't push yourself like Tony does.”

“No, I'm fine,” Peter insists, and no one pushes it.

A few minutes later, someone—Peter can't really tell who it is since his vision's getting _slightly_ blurry—asks him about his powers, and he jolts upright. “Um. My powers?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and oh _wow_ that was Steve “Captain America” Rogers—Peter’s heard that Sam was now Cap but the sentiment remained all the same—was _asking_ Peter Parker, Midtown Tech honors student, a certified nerd, about his _superhero powers_ —“We saw you on the ceiling and in action at the airport in Germany, but what exactly _is_ your gig?”

“My gig?” Peter asks. “Um. I have spider-like powers, I guess. I was bitten by a weird lab experiment spider some years ago and now I have spider-like powers. I've said that already. I'm repeating myself now.”

“Take your time, kid,” Bucky says, and Peter nods nervously.

“Right, right. So I can climb up walls now, like some crazily enhanced inbuilt anti-grav tech, and Mr. Stark made me a suit that could actually let me do that even through the fabric. I also have enhanced strength, hearing, sight, and… that's kind of it? The strength is cool, although it doesn’t measure up to the big guys that come after me. They always use lethal strength,” Peter says, “and I always try not to hurt them. And the hearing and stuff—enhanced senses? It's handy, but it’s also a pain, because I get sensory overload often. And...” He sucks in a deep breath. “Yeah. It's really cool though. I think I'm pretty cool,” he adds self-deprecatingly.

“He's not letting you in on everything,” Tony says. “Kid's a genius. Peter made his own web fluid—strong enough to hold up buildings and support his swinging around New York all the time, and he made it with the materials inside a highschool chemistry lab. He also helped out a lot at our labs—that Stark internship certificate wasn't just for show. He's also, you know, a _hero._ Local crime-fighting stubborn vigilante, with the occasional excursion into space.”

“Oh, god, so there's two of you now,” Rhodey says, and the rest of the group laughs. Peter stammers out some kind of nonsense, because really, who'd expect him to be _coherent_ when he's being held to the same light as _Tony Stark?_

“Nah,” Tony says, and Peter's heart sinks a bit before the man adds, “He's way better.”

Sounds of agreement and praise come from the present Avengers, and Peter sinks back into his seat, certain that his face is red and that if anyone prompts him to speak, he'd be stuttering through even the simplest word. “Thank you,” he manages quietly, and Tony pats him on the back.

“Alright. Thor, did you bring that Asgard beer thing?” Clint asks. “Because they've been talking it up, and frankly I'm curious to see what would happen if these two—” he points at Steve and Bucky, the two enhanced supersoldiers—“would fare with it.”

Thor grins. “Hawkeye, my friend! You are a genius,” he says, and unhooks a flask from his belt. “Valkyrie found out a way to brew it even on Midgard, so there's plenty to go around.”

Peter shifts uncomfortably in his seat as people start clamoring for glasses and beer. It isn't that he _doesn't_ drink alcohol—he doesn't, but that's not the point—it’s that the idea of either getting shitfaced with the Avengers as a technical minor or being around the Avengers while they're drunk…

Tony probably notices this. “Hey, Pete, this might be a good time for you to hit the hay.”

“I'm not a kid,” Peter says, but he starts yawning halfway through the statement, so there's not much merit to any protests he makes.

“Let him live a little, Stark!” Thor says, and grabs an empty cup, pouring it full to the brim with his flask—which seemingly never runs dry—and handing it to Peter. Peter takes it, bemused, and looks from Thor to Tony and back to the beer.

“Thor, no. He's seventeen,” says Steve, who's gripping a glass himself.

Thor's eyes brighten with understanding. “Ah! A child. My mistake,” he says, and swiftly fills another cup with beer and shoving it into Peter's free hand. “You are a growing boy.”

“No,” Tony says firmly, and takes both cups from Peter. “Pete, bed.”

“Yeah, probably a good idea,” Peter admits. As he makes to stand up, the rest of the group gives him warm farewells and promises to see him again, and Peter smiles shyly and waves tentatively. “Night, guys. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Thor, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Bucky, Mr. Rhodey, Mr. Quill, Mr. Barton, Mr. Wilson.”

Then, before he can make a fool of himself (further), Peter turns and is met with Tony, who ruffles his hair and points him in the direction of his room.

His _room._ Peter Parker has a _room_ at the _Avengers headquarters._ He says it twice to himself to make it sink in, then twice again in Spanish because he can.

 _Man, Ned is going to_ combust _when he hears about this._

\---

“So…” Tony lets the word hang. “How do you like him?”

“Preferably medium-rare,” Clint says, already red-faced from the beer. “What was the question?”

“He seems like a good kid,” says Steve, who isn't as affected, if at all, by the alcohol. “He looks up to you. Like you're his dad.”

“Oh, no. I'd be the worst father.” Tony muses on it. “Maybe like… a cool uncle.”

“No, you're definitely his father figure,” Rhodey says. “We're the cool uncles.”

“So you guys _do_ like him!” Tony says gleefully. “You're already starting to adopt him.”

“He called me _Mr. Bucky,_ ” Bucky says disbelievingly, with the beginning cadences of fondness. “Jesus Chirst.”

“You've got a good son, Stark,” Thor says.

“He's not my son,” Tony says automatically, although his mind lingers on it.

“Peter Starkson,” Thor continues, ignoring Tony. “A great legacy of great minds and heroic actions.”

“Stupid actions, maybe,” Tony mutters. “Peter’s… God. He's not new to this, not really, but he's almost like a veteran when it comes to impulsive, reckless, and improvised decisions in action.”

“So he's just another one of us,” Sam says.

“Really?”

“Hello,” Steve pipes up. “War criminal speaking.”

“ _Former_ war criminal,” Rhodey says.

“The sentiment remains.”

“I get it,” Tony says. “New Yorkers—no brains at all.”

Steve shrugs. “Hey, I'd say Brooklyn and Queens have distinct—”

“At,” Tony interrupts. “All. Anyway, I need to talk to you guys about something. Originally, I hadn't planned for everyone to be shitfaced, but we'll work with that.

“I'm going to be out of town discussing the new Accords with a newer, more open-minded and complicit group of officials. See about getting us full freedom and liberty to move about as we please—and discuss Barnes’ exoneration. It's just going to be me and Rhodey on the trip, so that means I'll need to leave one of you in charge—”

“Of the base?” Steve says. “It's self-sustaining, isn't it?”

“—of Peter,” Tony finishes. “Someone needs to look out, if not after, Peter Benjamin Parker, because God knows that that kid's a _mess_ right now.”

And then Tony spills what happened during Peter's time in Europe. The parts he gleaned from Happy, hacked from European surveillance cameras, EDITH’s—whose acronym was originally a _worst case scenario_ kind of thing but now was just cute—logs, and the confessions of those arrested on Quentin Beck's team. By the time he finishes, everyone's looking decidedly more sober.

“Christ,” Sam says. “That's a hardcore superhero origin story.”

“Peter's origin story is even more messed up,” Tony says. “But that's besides the point. The point is—Peter’s unstable. His entire situation is unstable. He's not going to know who to trust, even back here, and he's not going to know how to function after Beck died.”

“Because he killed Beck?” Rhodey asks.

“Because Beck died, and he didn't stop it.” Tony rubs a hand across his face. “Peter doesn't kill people. He doesn't. Even with the Vulture—which, by the way, what is it with people and naming themselves after birds?—he prevented Toomes from flying away with the malfunctioning reactors, which saved him from being blown up, even _after_ Toomes had tried to kill him.

“Peter Parker doesn't kill people, but Beck's hurt him, and a large part of it is on me. Beck used the rumor of my death to drive home a point, and that point is that Peter isn't good enough. He is. Peter's got this hero gig down. He just wants to save everyone, and when he can't, when he _sees_ that he can't—even when it's an illusion—it hurts him.”

“So your solution is that we manage him?” Clint asks.

“Not manage. No. Just… look out for, you know? Be cool uncles. Try to prevent him from getting killed by trying to save the world single-handed.”

There's a period of silence that's broken, surprisingly, by Bucky. “I can do it.”

A pause. “You?” Sam asks, not bothering to hide the disbelief in his voice.

Bucky glares at him. “Yeah. Me. Who else here has experience dealing with a headstrong impulsive kid with no regard for personal safety who thinks he can save the world all by himself?”

Steve chokes on his beer. Bucky ignores him, and takes the silence from the rest of the group as agreement. “Exactly.”

“How about a compromise?” Clint suggests. “We take turns with the kid. We're still heroes. We still have to duck out of Manhattan every once in a while to deal with some threat somewhere else. So whoever's here and equipped to look out for Peter can do so.”

“I think that's a good idea,” proclaims Steve, who receives an elbow to the chest from Bucky. “Ow—I mean, Bucky's more than well-equipped for this situation, but working together is a good idea.”

Tony absorbs all this with a nod. “Alright. Alright. You guys saved the world, you can protect a kid.”

“But we can still get, like, absolutely shitfaced tonight, right?” Clint asks.

“Go for it, Legolas.” Tony turns to leave. “I've gotta pack and drop a few things off for Pepper, but I'll leave you all to it.”

A few hours later, deep into the night, with most of the present Avengers already drunk well into next Monday, Steve—who’s still coherent but tipsy—receives a text from Tony.

**“I’m trusting you with my son, Rogers. Don't let him get hit by a drone or something.”**

Ever since Steve came back from returning the stones with a determined want for retirement and moving on from Captain America, and passed on the shield to Sam, Tony's gone from calling Steve “Cap” to the slightly more personal but still kind of chilly “Rogers”.

Which is fair, but weird, since Tony's become surprisingly okay with Bucky (although, he called him “Barnes” as well), especially after getting a prosthetic arm of his own, albeit Iron Man themed. Maybe it was something Steve did on his own.

Shrugging down the notions that'd lead him into an unwanted rabbit hole of spiralling thoughts, Steve texts back, careful not to misspell anything in case Tony takes the opportunity to make fun of him.

**“Yeah, yeah, Tony. Enjoy your trip. Don't worry about it.”**

A few minutes later, his phone chimes again.

**“Thanks, Steve.”**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit of angst and more of some wholesome content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you haven't noticed.....i really like bucky and having him interact with peter so buckle (ha?) up!

Peter wakes up screaming.

He doesn't mean to. He hasn't had a nightmare since his encounter with the Vulture, two—seven?—years ago, hasn't woken up in cold sweat and in tears with the gritty taste of asphalt on his tongue and the weight of a concrete building on his back, crushing him, suffocating him.

But now, he's shaking, and shaking hard. Faint lingering impressions of falling through layers of shattering glass, thrown out into nothingness and jerked back into sharp reality like a limp, helpless yo-yo, falling to his knees in front of a tombstone, in front of multiple tombstones, engraved with names he knows— _ Anthony Edward Stark, May Parker, Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones— _

Peter's shaking, and he can't seem to stop a sob from escaping his body, and the other wrenching cries that follows.

God, he’s  _ Spiderman _ , for Christ’s sake, but he still  _ can’t keep his goddamned shit together. _ Peter grinds the heels of his palms into his closed eyes, teeth clenching, and he wills himself to calm down, only it doesn’t work, and it just feels like he’s falling through Quentin’s illusions again, slamming past glass shards, mirrors and lies and trust betrayed. 

MJ materializes before him in his mind, unharmed but disheveled and scared and her throat vulnerable as Mysterio pops into view and grabs her by the neck, pushing her closer to a ledge. Peter sobs—he  _ hates _ this one, hates it with a passion, because even though the one with Tony’s tombstone was horrifying, he  _ knows  _ it isn’t true.

But he doesn’t, with MJ. MJ, who knows who he is. MJ, who he’s now dating, and who’s now—in his mind—being forced closer and closer to tipping into a bottomless fall—

“Peter,” MJ pleads, her voice raspy and echoing in his mind. “Help me.”

Mysterio releases his grip on her throat. And then he shoves her violently, sending her tumbling back into empty space, and her terrified scream brings another wave of fresh tears to Peter’s eyes.

_ How is he supposed to be Spiderman, to be a  _ hero _ , when he can’t even save the people he loves? _

He grabs his pillow and buries his face into it, letting out a frustrated yell into the soft down. And then his door opens, and he yelps and scrambles off his bed in surprise at the sudden light that's streaming in from the hallway.  _ Too goddamn bright _ , Peter thinks, and his eyes ache with tears and oversensitivity.

“Jesus Christ,” the person in his doorway says, and steps closer to Peter with worry and concern in his voice. “Peter—”

“Who,” rasps Peter, still trying to shield his eyes from the light.  _ God _ , it's too bright, it's  _ too fucking bright— _

“It's me. Steve. Rogers. Steve Rogers,” says the person, and finally, Peter's eyes adjust to see that it is, in fact, the former Captain America standing over him with hands halfway outstretched, as if wanting to offer comfort but not knowing how. “Hey.”

Peter swallows down a lungful of air and tries his best to calm down. His head doesn't object as viciously to the light coming through the open doorway now, and he starts to breathe steadier. “Hi,” he whispers. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Steve echoes. “Why?”

“I was screaming,” Peter explains, his voice still shaky. “It was probably loud and woke people up—oh, god, please tell me I didn't wake anyone up—”

“No, no, Peter, it’s fine,” Steve reassures. “Most everyone else is drunk—I recovered faster, and I’m the only one sober right now, I’d say. Well, me and Bucky, but he’s asleep.”

“No, he’s not,” says Bucky from the doorway, and it’s a real testament to how weary Peter is that his Spider-sense—fine,  _ Peter Tingle _ —didn’t alert to him first. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing! Nothing,” Peter blurts, unconvincingly. “I just… had a nightmare. Is all. Really, it’s stupid. Don’t worry about me.”

“ _ Nothing _ ,” echoes Bucky disbelievingly. “Kid, we’ve all had nightmares. They’re shitty as hell, and we get it, alright? We understand. You can talk to us.”

“No,” Peter whispers, although he acknowledges how the fact that he’s still cowering on the floor would lower the merit of his words. “Really. It’s fine. I’m—I’m gonna go patrol. I don’t think I can go back to sleep.”

“Patrol?” Steve hesitates. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Fresh air,” Peter replies, which isn’t really an answer to the question. “I’ll be fine,” he adds, which also isn’t an answer.

He misses the chill breeze against his mask when he swings through nighttime Queens and Brooklyn, the awed stares he gets from kids still on the streets, the moments where he can climb to the top of the Empire State Building and just… chill there. 

Peter's really,  _ really _ missed New York City.

Steve and Bucky exchange looks. “We’ll come with you,” says the latter.

“Wh—What?” Peter stares at them. “No—No, you don’t need to—”

“We want to,” Steve says. Bucky nods confirmingly. “And you can’t really stop us.”

“But—”

“Son,” interrupts Steve. “Just don’t.”

Which is how, ten minutes later, Peter finds himself walking beside two famed Avengers—the Winter Soldier and the former Captain America—the three of them navigating the streets of nighttime New York City with practiced ease.

Not for the first time, Peter reevaluates his life choices.

Steve and Bucky are dressed in civilian clothing, the former with a denim jacket and white T-shirt and the latter with a black hoodie and his prosthetic arm shoved into a pocket. Peter debated over whether or not he should be wearing his Spidey suit for this excursion if the other two weren’t suiting up, but Steve convinced him to do so—and true, it'd be weird if Peter Parker’s seen traipsing around Brooklyn with the two.

“So what do you normally do on patrol?” Steve asks Peter, who shrugs.

“I… swing around,” he replies. “Look for people in danger, stop robberies and stuff, maybe—if I have time and cash—buy a few homeless guys some sandwiches or shit.”

_ Fuck.  _

_ Did he just curse in front of Steve Rogers? Captain “Language!”—Peter's heard the story from Tony, thank you very much—America? Oh, fucking hell. _

But Steve's laughing. “So Tony told you about that,” he says, seeing the look on Peter's face, and Peter nods. “Unsurprising. Look, kid, I grew up in the 40s. I was in the army. I curse—a lot. I was swearing before Tony was born, alright?”

“Did you just out-hipster Mr. Stark?” Peter asks in awe.

“ _ Out- _ hipster?” Bucky laughs. “You implyin’ that Stark's a hipster?”

“He plays Led Zeppelin in the labs! He went with a red and gold color scheme, which looks way more vintage-y than, I don't know, black and silver, although I guess that's Mr. T'Challa's look, but still! And—don’t tell him I said this—he has like, three vintage Star Trek lunchboxes in his personal office at Stark Industries. So.”

Bucky's chuckling. “Oh, man, I like you, kid.”

Later, when the three of them return to base after an uneventful—aside from running into a kid in a hoodie spray-painting some walls with Iron Man murals—night, Steve takes Peter aside and tells him privately that “Bucky hasn't laughed so much since he was in the Howling Commandos” and “He really does like you, Pete, we all do” and “We're new to this ‘uncle’ business, as Clint calls it, but we'll come 'round, alright?” and all of this leaves Peter feeling awed and starstruck, because  _ what the holy hell? _

If he didn't feel like a part of the Avengers before, sneaking onto the spaceship and fighting alongside Tony and the Guardians in space and racing across the battleground that is the ruins of the Avengers headquarters with the gauntlet tucked beneath his arm, he sure feels like one now.

Even if it is like he somehow got (unofficially) adopted by the Avengers in one night. 

Christ, it's been a weird week.

\---

The next day, Peter wakes from an uneventful nighttime doze—different from actually  _ sleeping, _ since in a “nighttime doze”, there's no actual intention of resting; it's more of a gamble for how many seconds Peter can keep his eyes shut and if he actually falls asleep along the way, that's a bonus—just in time to witness his door being kicked open—and perhaps off its hinges—and Bucky hurtling in with a phone in hand. 

“Parker!” The volume of Bucky's voice is loud enough to startle Peter completely awake and alert. The crime-fighting vigilante yelps in an undignified, decidedly unheroic manner, leaps off his bed, lands on the ceiling, and peers at his visitor through just-awakened, light-sensitive eyes.

“Jesus,” Peter mumbles. 

“No. It's just me.” Bucky looks up at him. “Morning.”

Peter unsticks a hand and waves. “Morning, Mr. Bucky.”

“Just Bucky is fine.”

“It's really, really not.” Peter yawns. “What’s up, Mr. Bucky?”

“You, apparently.” Bucky holds up his phone, clutched in his metallic hand, and Peter can't resist catching a closer glimpse of the robotic marvel. He makes mental notes to ask Bucky about how it works later. “Can you explain this meme?”

Hearing the word 'meme’ being said by James Buchanan Barnes—former assassin and HYDRA agent, current Avenger and deadly hero and military legend—is like a bad trip for Peter, whose hands and feet unconsciously dislodge their grip on the ceiling and it sends him tumbling back onto the bed. Bucky watches all this with mild bemusement. “I asked Barton, but he's still half-drunk and hungover and told me to fuck off to find the ‘actual young one’, so…”

Peter gets to his feet hastily. “Right. Um. Yeah. I can help with that.”

The 'meme’ Bucky shows him, Peter having to tap the dimming phone screen to get it to revive, is evidently a Tumblr post—a post with a photo that was released alongside an official statement from Wakanda and a few U.S. officials regarding Bucky's return and rescue from HYDRA. The statement included the general gist of what had happened to Bucky, but neglected to mention any details.

It's a picture of Bucky, taken by Shuri back in Wakanda, with a cloth wrapped around his armless left side and him standing by a lake. The caption of the photo is:  **_Excuse me. I am armless. I am gay. I have amnesia. I'm new in town._ **

Peter bursts out laughing. Bucky stares at him, then gazes at the phone. “I don't get it,” the ex-assassin announced. 

“You don't know John Mulaney, right?” Peter manages through laughs, the confused expression on Bucky's face making it all the more hilarious. “Oh, man. Uh, he's a comedian, and he's really, really funny. This is one of his quotes, only whoever made this post kinda changed it up a bit.”

And then Peter finds himself showing Bucky the original standup show on YouTube, which leads to Bucky enjoying it tremendously and searching John Mulaney up in his own phone and yielding dozens of video results, which eventually turns into the two of them crashing on the couches in the lounge watching Kid Gorgeous on one of the TVs. 

Steve finds them laughing at a bit from the video, the part where John Mulaney's reenacting and reminiscing Detective J.J. Bittenbinder and his 'street smarts’, and Bucky makes a joke about throwing his arm as replacement for a money clip and they're laughing all over again while Steve scratches his head in puzzlement.

Overall, Peter thinks he's really glad to be an Avenger. 

\---

“Ned! Ned, dude, shit, this is all—this is all so cool,” Peter says excitedly into his phone in one breath, doing a backflip into the air, out of his room's window, and shooting a web and flipping himself so he soars through the brisk morning air and lands lightly on one of the rooftops of the Avengers base. “No, seriously, man, this is like  _ the dream.  _ It's so cool—what do you mean I have Chem homework?”

“Forget the Chem homework,” his best friend hisses from across the line. “ _ Details, _ Peter! I want details! You're seriously at the  _ Avengers headquarters _ right now?”

“Yeah, Mr. Stark said it might be for the best for me to take a few days off after Mysterio, you know? I'll be back at school Monday, though, so don't miss me too much.” Today is Saturday, and Peter's both excited yet dreading his return to Midtown Tech.

Excited, because, well—alright, he likes learning. And the sooner Peter gets to see his friends the better. Excited, because…  _ A really cool girl that he admires agreed to a date with him and Peter really thinks that it might actually work out. _

Dreading, because Peter's tired. He's worn out and weary and he now has trust issues. He isn't ready to try and pretend to have some semblance of a normal life. He just wants…

What  _ does  _ he want?

Ned's still talking. “So Mr. Stark's alive, right? I mean, you told me that—and I swear I haven't told anyone yet!—but it's just… surreal, you know? Me knowing but everyone else like, completely shut out? If I haven't told you this yet, thank you for letting me part of your amazing journey.”

“How's MJ?” Peter blurts, cutting the other off mid-ramble. He feels bad, for a second, but he knows Ned's used to him being like this—right? 

There's a pause, then Ned snorts. “You're so obvious,” he laughs. “MJ's fine. I told her you're taking a break for a few days. She says that you're a punk and you better get your ass back to school soon, but that also you should take better care of yourself and if you don't, she's going to Uber over there and force you to rest.”

Peter grins, although his friend can't see him. “Aw, man.” He tips his head back, feeling the brisk wind against his masked skin, and letting himself just enjoy the sensation for a second. In that split second, everything's fine. Peter's got a girlfriend (or at least, he's on the way!) and an amazing best friend and a  _ family _ , of sorts.

So... yeah. Yeah, Peter Parker's got a pretty good thing going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: Spiderman: Wanting To Go Home And Escape His Impending Education Responsibilities But Sucking It Up (With Some Help)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes back to school. He immediately runs into a few big problems—but the good news is, the first problem? An essay on primary sources for World War II? It's nothing that can't be solved with a quick phone call to one of his newfound uncles.

“Peter. Peter.  _ Peter.” _

MJ’s voice cuts through Peter’s drifting conscious, and he snaps back to attention. As he does, his body regain its sensitivity, and his mental self slams back into the atrociously red-colored lunch table with the equally atrocious food laid out on it, back at the cafeteria in Midtown Tech. He blinks, registering his name being called. “Yeah! What?”

His friends are looking at him in blatant bemusement. MJ’s got her eyes narrowed, worried and observing. “Are you okay?” she asks. “You’ve been in and out since Chemistry.”

“Not just Chem,” Betty puts in. Ever since Europe, she’s stuck by with Peter’s friend group even closer than ever, which astounds Peter, really—not because he doesn’t  _ like _ Betty, but because she’s only here for Ned, who she dated and then (mutually) broke up with. Weird that she’d still want to stick around. “He was zoned out in Literature. He didn’t even react when Flash was acting douchey.”

“We’ve become numb to his douchiness,” Peter says, but he’s still slightly distant. He doesn’t know why—it’s not like he’s got really a lot to worry about, not even a crush to pine over anymore—so he forces himself out of the daze. “Sorry. Just—got a lot on my mind.”

Ned and MJ’s gazes clear in understanding, and Ned says, “Oh, yeah. You got that paper to make up for too, for History, remember?”

Peter, in fact, does not remember this fact. “No?”

“It’s on World War II,” MJ fills in. “Mainly just a practice on primary sources.”

“When’s it due?” 

“Tomorrow, actually.”

“What?” Peter starts to panic. “Shit.”

“You can ask Mr. Holt for an extension,” Betty says helpfully. “Since you were absent and all.”

“I shouldn’t,” Peter says mournfully. History’s one of the few subjects he doesn’t have an AP or Honors class on, and it’s mostly due to all his peers being too smart for his good—he got landed in the 90th percentile due to one exam’s mistake—so one of his goals for his newly reinstated high-school life is to get into AP American History next semester. And that’s not going to happen if he keeps asking for extensions due to his part-time vigilante life. “Damnit.”

“We can help,” Ned volunteers. “MJ and I have our essays done, complete with citations, so many you could use those sources?”

Peter sighs gratefully. “Oh, god, yeah, that’d be amazing. Thanks.”

MJ elbows him. “Anytime.”

\---

A collective chorus of disbelieving groans go up around the classroom as the Midtown High Academic Decathlon team stare at their head teacher. Mr. Harrington stares back, a contrite expression on his face. “Sorry, team,” he says, “but I just can’t make it.”

“It’s one of our biggest competitions!” Abe protests. 

“Yeah, it’s what we’ve been working towards for the past two months,” Sally adds. 

MJ doesn’t say anything, but Peter can see the disappointed look in her face. He raises his hand. “Do we have a substitute?” he asks.

“I tried asking around, but no one seems to be free during the two days,” Mr. Harrington replies. He rubs a hand across his face, sighing. “I’m really sorry, guys.”

Mumbles of ‘it’s fine’ and ‘no worries’ go around the room, and Peter sinks back into his seat. The Decathlon team—Peter’s only friend group, really, discount Ned and Betty—means a lot to him, and it’s sad to see them all look so dispirited. 

Talk about a real downer.

\---

“No way,” Peter whispers to Ned, the two of them seated high on the bleachers of the auditorium, eyes loosely trained on their principal standing in the middle of the space, with a PowerPoint presentation displayed on the monitor that reads  _ Career Day. _

“Yeah, way,” Ned whispers back, sounding just as bemused as Peter is.

“Career day? What is this, sixth grade?” Flash complains, just one step below them, and Betty elbows him, although she looks as though she can’t agree more.

“All of you are instructed to bring in a family member, preferably your parents, and have them talk about their job in your homeroom,” continues the principal from his initial introduction, and before Peter can quip something, MJ beats him to it.

“Yes, young lady in the fifth row.”

“What if you’re an orphan?” she asks blatantly, and murmurs of reaction ripple out in the body of students. “Or if your parents don’t give a shit about you?”

That causes a lot more reaction—some scandalized or entertained by the explicit language in front of the principal, some nods of agreement, some pitying looks—and the principal looks nonplussed. “Er. Then bring any family member. Or person close to you. Parental figures.”

MJ nods, clearly unsatisfied, and puts her hand down.

Peter sinks back into his seat. He knows Aunt May won’t have time for a career day—she’s busy enough working double, triple shifts at her multiple jobs, and he doesn’t want to bother her anyway—so that leaves… no one. Even if he could ask Mr. Stark, the whole world knows him as dead, so he’s really backed up into a corner.

_ Fuck. _

\---

Eight hours, four cups of coffee, three papers from his friends they emailed him, a dozen tabs open on primary sources for the second World War on his laptop, and one patrol later, Peter stares at his screen with its open Microsoft Word document—with only four lines written on it, and those four would be the standard MLA name, date, subject, and professor’s name.

Peter groans,  _ loudly _ , and slumps down on his bed. “Fuck,” he whispers to himself.

He hasn’t brought up career day to May yet, either—and frankly, he’s not going to. He’d rather have no one arrive on that day for him than to have someone take valuable time off their lives and stand in for one stupid day of career-presenting in front of a bunch of disinterested high-school kids. 

World War II. World War II. He tries to get himself to focus.

Peter leafs through the tabs yet again, finding records of Nazi spy messages and counts of casualties from either side. Nothing he can actually  _ write  _ about. 

And then a name catches his eye. A familiar name. And Peter hits himself upside the head for not thinking about it sooner.

Grabbing his phone, Peter sends a quick text to Mr. Stark, who responds just as fast with a number in reply. He dials the number and waits anxiously for the other end to pick up—

“Who’s this?” a familiar voice says, and Peter rushes right into the point.

“Mr. Rogers? Captain, sir? It’s Peter. Parker. Spider-Man? Uh, I’m really sorry to bother you, especially at—half past twelve—but I really, really need help with this one history essay, and it’s about World War II, so you know, Nazi time, but I can’t find any good sources for my essay, and I—”

“Woah, easy there, kid,” says Steve over the line. “I didn’t get all that. Did you say Nazis?”

“I—yes, but it’s not what you think.” Peter glances at his laptop. “I need help with primary sources for my World War II essay, and you’re the best primary source in America.”

“You got that right.” Steve pauses, and Peter can hear the sounds of a door opening. “Where are you?”

“My apartment. Or, uh, the apartment I share with my aunt. My aunt’s apartment, I mean, I just live here.” Peter recites the address. “Thank you so much,” he adds. 

“Not a problem. I’ll be there in five.”

And indeed, five minutes later, Steve Rogers is seated at the dining table in the Parkers’ small apartment, Peter’s laptop open on the table and Steve waving an old book around. Peter thought it was a written journal, but it turns out that Steve dug his old  _ sketchbook _ out—sketches that he’d done in the army, before it, after becoming Captain, everything.

There’s some sketches that seem private, too, but Steve doesn’t hesitate to share them—depictions of what must be his life before the war, a sketch of a houseplant, a twinkle of laughing eyes, and many, many drawings of Bucky. Peter turns out to learn more about Steve Rogers than Captain America, and he’s not complaining at all.

Then Steve switches to the main topic—World War II. Peter’s so absorbed in the retelling of the story of the Howling Commandos that he doesn’t even notice when Aunt May gets home. And it’s a bit of a pickle to explain, to say the least, but Steve charms her easily with good-old-fashioned manners, and Aunt May makes them cocoa a few minutes after that.

By two in the morning, Peter’s tired but his fingers won’t stop flying over his laptop keyboard, and Steve’s leaning over his shoulder, pointing out minor inaccuracies and complimenting him on his choice of wording. By two and a half in the morning, Peter’s got a fully fleshed-out essay, eight pages, complete with one page of citations—the most prominent of which is the citation that says  **_Captain America._ **

Once Peter has it printed out, Steve takes a pen and writes, in parentheses next to the aforementioned citation,  _ it’s true!  _ and adds a smiley face. And Peter wonders idly how he’s supposed to actually explain it to his history teacher, but decides to save that worry for a few hours later.

Turns out, Mr. Holt just stares at his essay in disbelief before holding it up. “You asked Captain America as a primary source?”

His voice is loud, and it draws the attention of every student in the classroom almost at once. Ned and MJ both give him a shocked but amused look, and everyone else just looks plain bewildered, until Flash laughs and says something about Peter lying.

“He’s not lying!” Ned protests.

“Isn’t he, though?” says Mr. Holt. “You can’t just put things on the essay and claim you got the information from Captain America. Can you prove the reliability of your sources, Mr. Parker?”

Peter stares at him for a second, then nods. “Yeah.”

In front of the scrutiny of his history class, Peter fishes out his phone and presses  _ call _ on the contact named  _ Mr. Star-Spangled Banner _ , waiting for the dial tone to click. It does.

“Peter?” Steve sounds cheerful. “What’s up?”

“Hi, Mr. Rogers,” says Peter, and Flash scoffs in disbelief. “Um, can you… drop by our class for a few minutes? Just long enough to prove that you’re my essay source? Uh, you can bring Mr. Barnes, too, if you’re—and he’s—okay with it.”

“Alright, kid.”

And when Captain America, followed by the former Winter Soldier, enters through the classroom door, sporting grins—mainly directed at Peter—and dressed in civilian wear, Peter takes a picture of Flash’s shocked face, and posts it to Instagram.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's got a lot on his mind. Who's he supposed to ask for Career Day? How're they supposed to go on the Decathlon match without a supervisor? And why does MJ seem to be acting weird?

“What’s up, kid?”

The question comes at Peter one Sunday morning, as he shambles around the Avengers base with his head ducked slightly and hands shoved into his pockets, spirits low. He glances over to where Clint’s sitting on the couch, having been looking at Peter with mild concern in his eyes for the past ten minutes.

“Life sucks, Mr. Hawk,” Peter says miserably. 

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Alright. Care to elaborate? Want to sit?”

“I don’t want to bother—”

“Save it,” Clint says. “I’m a dad, alright? I have that tingle. The dad tingle. I can tell when something’s on your mind that I can help with. Now sit down, Pete.”

Peter sits.

“So.” Clint gestures at him. “What’s up?”

The words come blurting out of his mouth in a disastrous tidal wave of teenage misery. “It’s just that we have a Decathlon match in a few days and Mr. Harrington’s busy then and he can’t act as supervisor so that means we can’t go to the match, and MJ’s really upset about it because she’s team captain and she’s been working us all around the clock for this, and when MJ’s upset I get upset too, and that’s—that’s not all, because… because there’s this stupid as shi—er, crap—Career Day that’s coming up, and Aunt May can’t come because she’s always too busy, and I don’t know who to ask.”

Peter sucks in a deep breath. “Yeah, that’s… about it.”

Clint nods, leaning back. “Let me get all that. You have a school match, but you don’t have a supervisor. Your friend’s upset. You don’t have anyone to go for Career Day.”

When he says it like that, Peter feels less stressed. “Um… Yeah,” he admits. “That’s it.”

“Have you asked anyone at base to help out?”

“How could I?” Peter puts his face into his hands. “I already asked Mr. Rogers and Mr. Bucky to help me with my essay, and I felt bad about it afterwards because they’re definitely busy and I took time out of their day. I’d ask Mr. Stark for Career Day, but…”

“But no one knows he’s alive.” Clint nods again. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“So I’m out of options,” Peter concludes.

“Nah,” Clint says. “I can help. When’s this Career Day of yours?”

“In a month,” Peter says. “Decathlon’s in two days.” Then, he pauses— “Wait, did you say you can—”

“I’m busy for your Career Day,” Clint says thoughtfully, “Gonna be a couple hundred light years away for it, but I can act as supervising adult for your Decathlon match. Your school’ll let me in, right?”

“Um…” Peter casts his mind back and recalls one incident in which Ned’s dad came to supervise a History Bowl game outside of New York. It’d ended with considerable tragedy. “Yeah. Yeah, they will.”

“Sweet.” Clint smiles at him. “See? One worry down.”

“You mean—You’re really going to—” Peter doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.  _ Going to help supervise a bunch of my nerd friends? Take two days off of superheroing and being a dad to your kids for this? _

He doesn’t say any of that. 

“... help?” he finishes lamely.

“Of course.” The former assassin, current Avenger, dad, and sharpshooter grins at him. “Why wouldn’t I? We’re a family around here.”

Peter grins back, despite himself. “Awesome,” he breathes, and Clint laughs.

A few hours later, it turns out, Clint’s spread the news of Career Day to the rest of the Avengers, who pop up across Peter’s day, asking him not-so-subtly about said Career Day. 

“So,” says Sam Wilson, leaning casually against the kitchen wall as Peter makes himself a grilled cheese sandwich. “Hear you need someone for Career Day?”

“Career Day, huh?” Rhodey glances at Peter, who’s sprawled out on one of the couches with his laptop balanced precariously on his stomach, trying to finish an English assignment. “Find someone yet, kid?”

“What’s this I hear about a day for careers?” Thor asks, his loud voice snapping through Peter’s reverie as he lounges on the ceiling in one of the supply closets on base. “What better figure to bring to this event than the god of thunder?”

“Carrots,” says Scott Lang, who passes Peter—who’s yet again searching for food—in the kitchen, holding a plate of vegetables doused with Caesar sauce. “Want some?”

The last one has no connection to Career Day, but Scott later drops by Peter’s study—he has a study!—to hint at his schedule being free for the foreseeable future if one were to invite him to an educational event. He also mentions his degree in electrical engineering briefly.

That night, back at May’s apartment, Peter’s wide awake, buzzing with excitement. He grabs for his phone, dialling MJ’s and Ned’s number, inviting the two of them into a group call.

MJ picks up first. “Sup, nerds?”

“Just one nerd, at the moment,” Peter replies. He can’t help but grin, even though MJ can’t see him—he’s still unbelievably infatuated and glad that MJ’s not only one of his best friends, but even willing to go on dates with him. “MJ! I’ve got  _ amazing _ news, you’re gonna love this.”

“They found a way to reverse climate change and effectively saving us from global extinction within the next eighteen months?” MJ asks.

“Uh,” Peter says, mentally pencilling that fact down to ask Mr. Stark about. “No, not yet, but!”

“Hey, Peter,” says Ned, who’s added into the call at last. “MJ. What’s up?”

“We have a supervisor for the Decathlon!” blurts Peter.

A stunned pause. “Pete, if you dragged May out of her busy schedule for two days straight,” Ned says, “I will personally beat your ass.”

“No! No, no, of course not,” Peter reassures him. “Guess who, though.”

“How are we supposed to—”

“It’s Hawkeye!” Peter exclaims. “Clint Barton! You know, the Avenger?”

“No  _ way _ ,” Ned replies, at the same time as MJ blurts “ _ what?” _

“Yeah, so you know how I hang out at base often?” Peter says. “Right, so, I told Mr. Barton about things—or, like, he asked me about them and I just blurted everything out, it was like word vomit, Ned, it was so embarrassing—but then he offered to be our supervisor, so.”

“That’s awesome!” Ned’s voice is filled with enthusiasm, and Peter beams at his phone. “Dude!”

“Amazing,” MJ agrees, although Peter thinks she sounds a bit… annoyed? Can’t be. He shakes the feeling off. “That means we have a chance at beating the enemy.”

“Just a chance? MJ, we’re in it to win it—we’re winning for sure,” Ned reassures her. “You drilled us good.”

There’s a pause. Peter opens his mouth.

“Don’t,” warns Ned, sounding regretful.

“Yeah, alright,” Peter agrees, at the same time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Decathlon trip arrives with Clint in tow... and some bad news, in turn, following Clint.

“‘Sup, asstown,” comes a familiar voice from behind Peter that the latter recognizes instantly. Peter sighs, tipping his head back in tiredness and finally turning around to come face-to-face with Flash.

The Decathlon team is gathered in the school parking lot, outside a bright yellow schoolbus, waiting on their chaperone. It’s still warm, as it’s only early fall, and Peter feels just a bit drowsy and sweaty in his yellow Decathlon team jacket. So it’s with an irked arched eyebrow that Peter says, “Asstown? Really?”

“Hey, fuck off. I didn’t expect to get up this early today.” Flash yawns, somehow obnoxious in doing even that, meandering off, and Peter stops for a second to reflect on how, for Flash, that was a fairly friendly interaction. 

“So,” MJ says, sidling up alongside Peter. “When’s our chaperone gonna be here?”

Peter checks his watch. Ten minutes ‘till they’ve got to depart from the school parking lot, and Clint is nowhere in sight. Uneasiness turns in his gut as he considers how upset everyone’s going to be if their chaperone turns out to be a no-show—Mr. Harrington had practically wept with relief upon the news that they’d still be able to make it to the Decathlon, and the team had let out a collective sigh of ease—and Peter pulls out his phone, ready to ask Mr. Stark for Clint’s number.

“Hey!” A voice makes the students whip around, and Peter relaxes when he sees Clint walking up to them, donned in a buttoned-up plaid shirt and jeans that makes him look incredibly like a dad. “Sorry I’m late. Couldn’t find my hearing aids.”

“Mr. Hawk!” Peter waves, smiling wide. 

“Hey, kid,” Clint says, equally amiably. He grins at the team, who seems to be in various stages of shock upon seeing an Avenger in their midst. Peter hadn’t said  _ who _ the new chaperone is, only that there would be one, and in hindsight, he wonders if he should’ve made a teensy mention, as both Sally and Abe seem seconds away from collectively fangirling to death. “Ready to go, everyone?”

Five minutes later, they’re on the road, jostling along in their schoolbus, and Peter’s phone buzzes from a text. It’s remarkably silent in the bus—turns out, no one wants to accidentally irk an Avenger by being rowdy teenagers—and he pulls his phone out, unlocking it, and sees that it’s a message from the Decathlon group chat.

**aBRUHham:** so…….. is anyone gonna engage

**FlashMafia:** With Clint Barton????

**aBRUHham:** dude hes LITERALLY sitting in our schoolbus rn chaperoning us on a Nerd Trip how is this my life

**guy in the chair:** he’s two rows ahead of me god how is he still intimidating

**SallyFace:** gosh ikr im like torn between wanting to sit next to him and like. screaming

**EmJay:** are you guys sure you aren’t overreacting?

**aBRUHham:** no

**guy in the chair:** no

**FlashMafia:** no

**Sallyface:** no

**FlashMafia:** Yo @beterbarker want to tell us the story of how your lame ass got us Clint Barton/Hawkeye as a highschool chaperone?

**beterbarker:** well

**beterbarker:** i

**beterbarker:** you know

**beterbarker:** i know someone who knows him

**guy in the chair:** he drops by peter’s internship hours sometimes

**EmJay:** yeah peter’s hung out with most of the big guys

**guy in the chair:** big guys meaning tony stark’s friends meaning the avengers

**beterbarker:** dude! fos code!!!!!!

**guy in the chair:** oh right sorry

**Sallyface:** what’s fos??

**guy in the chair:** fans…..of……...secrecy

**FlashMafia:** Load of bull but ok

**aBRUHham:** HANG ON @beterbarker YOU KNOW HIM??? PETER COULD YOU INTRODUCE

**aBRUHham:** actually nvm

**aBRUHham:** it’d be weird and awkward

**beterbarker:** why dont you guys just?? Talk To Him

As if on cue, Peter receives another text, this one from an unknown number.

**Unknown:** This chaperone thing is easier than I expected. No one’s even breathing too loudly. It’s so weird. I expected more… I don’t know. Fire?

**Unknown:** This is Clint, btw.

**beterbarker:** hi mr. hawk!!

**beterbarker:** oh they’re intimidated 

**_beterbarker_ ** _ saved  _ **_Unknown_ ** _ as  _ **_Mr. Hawk_ **

**beterbarker:** they’re freaking out over you in our gc

**Mr. Hawk:** gc?

**beterbarker:** group chat

**Mr. Hawk:** They do know I’m not Natasha, right? If she was here, that’d be worth being scared of. I’m literally a dad.

**beterbarker:** well you HAVE killed people

**Mr. Hawk:** Well. Yes.

**beterbarker:** and you’re like scary good with weapons

**Mr. Hawk:** Uh huh.

**beterbarker:** and they’re highschool students, which means that they find you amazingly interesting but also slightly and reasonably intimidating

**Mr. Hawk:** You make a good point.

A few buzzes of his phone has Peter switching back to the group chat, now with ten more messages.

**FlashMafia:** You think he’d take a photo with me for the Flash Mob?

**EmJay:** if he had any sense? no

**FlashMafia:** Why must you wound me with your words

**EmJay:** you’d rather i use a mace?

**FlashMafia:** On second thought words are wonderful and yours are especially healing

**EmJay:** i’m asking mr barton for a knife so you better duck

**guy in the chair:** she WILL do it

**FlashMafia:** mj no I’m too young to die

**aBRUHham:** #IStandWithMJ

**guy in the chair:** #RIPFlash

**guy in the chair:** oh hang on shes actually doing it

“MJ, no,” comes a whispered hiss from a few seats behind Peter. He turns and finds Flash poking his head above his seat, urgency in his tone. “MJ.  _ MJ.” _

Peter swivels around and sees MJ striding purposefully down the bus, stopping when she reaches Clint. She’s got her hands in her pockets and her usual messy ponytail that leaves strands dangling in her face, so it makes it all the more unbelievable when this 16-year-old teenage girl asks Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye, professional killer and famous Avenger, “So how many people have you killed?”

There’s total silence in the bus for a few seconds—the silence of half-a-dozen teenage nerds holding their breaths so intently and nervously Peter could hear MJ's heartbeat (not that he couldn't already if he tried)—when suddenly, Clint barks out a surprised laugh.

It’s filled with genuine amusement, and everyone relaxes as Clint replies with, “Well, if you want the truth? Too many to count. But if we narrow it down to  _ people I killed who didn’t deserve it _ , then… Nah. None.”

Peter knows that’s not entirely the truth. Only because he knows about Clint’s time as Ronin, and how some questionable decisions were made then. But he doesn’t say any of that.

“Alright then,” MJ says with no detectable change in her behavior. She cranes her neck to gaze at the rest of her team, and announces, quite sardonically, “So there’s no need to be nervous at _ all _ .”

Almost as if she set off a chain reaction, everyone swarms for Clint, Peter included. Five minutes later, the seats in a circle around Clint are occupied by some very intrigued and excited teenagers, peppering the man with questions ranging from casual topics to weaponry to thoughts on society.

“You can use  _ katanas _ too?” Abe exclaims, eyes wide as Clint grins and nods.

“Hang on, you speak Spanish?” asks Sally. “And Chinese?”

“And Japanese, French, American Sign Language, and snippets of Russian,” Clint confirms, and even MJ looks impressed.  _ Polyglot _ , she mouths to Peter.

“Don’t a lot of heroes have masks to hide their identities and stuff?” Ned pipes up. Clint nods. “So if you don’t have your hearing aids—because they might get, like, knocked off in a fight, right? Or it’s a surprise attack and you don’t have time to grab them—then how do you communicate?”

“Usually they lift up the bottoms of their masks so I can read their lips,” Clint replies, “although I have to ask them to do it. Wa—Deadpool, though, he does it automatically—even knows sign language, which is pretty sweet, really.”

Ned nods, satisfied with the newfound trivia. “Cool.”

Flash has his phone out, and has the decency to ask Clint “Can we do a short video for my social media?” —to which Clint agrees good-naturedly—before starting a new livestream with the ‘iconic’ catchphrase: “What up, Flash Mob? Today we’re here with my new friend Hawkeye—”

“Guys, this dude is so cool,” Ned says quietly to Peter and MJ.

“Kinda,” MJ agrees.

“He’s super chill,” Peter adds. “Like seriously—if it weren’t for Germany, he seems to me like just your regular suburban dad.”

“So cool that he agreed to chaperone,” Ned whispers. “This is gonna be the  _ best _ .”

They end up doing Decathlon practice—MJ handing out buzzers and calling out questions to the team, who seem to perform better than usual, much to MJ’s gratification. Clint watches them and claps when someone hits the buzzer in record time with the correct answer, even going as far as to steal someone’s buzzer when a particular question about either linguistics or history pops up that he knows the answer to. 

Eventually, the answers stop being entirely serious, becoming jokes and references mixed together with factual replies. (MJ just rolls with it.)

“Name two aspects of the so-called ‘Renaissance Man’,” MJ reads from a card, and not five seconds after she’s finished, Peter slams his bell.

“They were expected to be Mr. Worldwide and also create art,” he calls.

“Correct,” MJ says, and Peter grins. “Next—twenty sixth element on the—”

Buzzer. “Iron!” Abe yells.

“Nice. Name the European city that was destroyed in 2015 and the cause of destruction,” MJ reads, and for a minute straight, there’s awkward silence and not-so-furtive glances stolen at Clint, until the Avenger takes the hint and hits Flash’s buzzer.

“Sokovia, East Europe—because Stark was a reckless ass,” he calls, and the tension is diffused as the team chuckles.

“Name of the monster that threatened Aethiopia in the Greek myths.”

Sally hits the buzzer. “Cetus!”

“Name one of the texts Confucianism abided by.”

Buzzer. “Analects,” Flash calls, although his emphasis is deliberately misplaced in a wrong syllable, causing Sally to snort. 

This goes on until the bus starts slowing, and they disembark when it stops outside the entrance of a local hotel in Washington, DC, Clint heading up the rear as the group clusters by the entrance. Everyone's still chatting and laughing with the excitement of having an Avenger in their midst, and it's low-key affecting Peter too—maybe he _should_ enjoy this trip, give up the ingrained anxiety that he'd gotten from Mysterio in Europe. He deserves as much. Right?

“So, who’s supposed to get us our rooms?” Clint asks, ambling over to MJ.

“You,” she replies. “They did send you the booking confirmation, right?”

“Right,” Clint says, pulling out his phone and thumbing through what’s presumably his email. “Tell you what. You go check in—just tell them you’re from Midtown Tech, that should be enough—and I’ll catch up with you.”

“What are you doing?” Ned asks.

“I need to make a call,” Clint replies. The team shrugs in assent and starts trotting into the hotel, but Peter catches the way Clint’s gaze darts to him for a split second. He purposely lingers at the end of the group, and stays behind when they’re all inside.

“What is it?” Peter asks, already bracing himself.

“You really are a bright one,” Clint says. He puts his hands in his pockets. “Follow me. It won’t be long.”

They reenter the school bus, where the driver seems unsurprised to see them. The car doors close firmly behind them—and that’s when Peter realizes that the driver seems familiar, somewhat bearing the vague resemblance of a technician he’d seen back in an underground lair in Europe, and it comes together; he’s a S.H.I.E.L.D. worker—and they sit down. 

Clint sighs. “I wasn’t late just because of my hearing aids.”

Peter nods, prompting the man to continue. “I received intel,” starts Clint, “from an uncertain source, that tells us that a familiar face has resurfaced in East Asia.”

“Good familiar or bad familiar?” Peter asks.

Clint makes a face. “Bad.”

Peter’s loathe to ask, but he makes himself say, “Who…?”

“Well.” Clint pauses. “Let’s just say you’re really not going to like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cliffhanger? is it?  
> take your bets, people.


End file.
